Cooking and Me
Cooking and I don’t have the best relationship. I’ve never been one to concoct a new recipe each night of the week, or even every other. Rather, I spend as little time cooking each week as possible; I set aside a couple hours on the weekend to cook up a huge quantity of one meal, and I slowly chip away at that preparation over the course of the week. For me, it’s a perfectly unflawed system.
Cooking has always stressed me out. I don’t like the idea that even if you are making several different things, you have to time it so that everything is ready at once. I don’t like standing over the stovetop tending to something as it simmers, stirring it, making sure it doesn’t burn. I don’t like buying a full packet of fresh herbs only to use the one sprig the recipe calls for and then watch the rest turn in my fridge. I don’t like the mountain of dishes cooking creates, the pots and pans, spoons and spatulas.
Cooking and I have never gotten along. My grandma and I are the same in this way. When we cook, we do so reluctantly, simply because we must feed ourselves or others. Simply because ordering in or dining out each night is way too expensive—plus not as healthy—we do what we must.
Unlike others out there, whom I sometimes envy, I do not get joy out of the artistry that is cooking. I don’t long to try new recipes pulled out of magazines or recommended by the New York Times. I don’t revel at the idea of adding “just a splash” of this or that to change up a recipe and make it my own. I don’t excite at the prospect of serving food I’ve cooked to a bunch of dinner guests. Rather, that thought brings me more stress than I can explain.
Baking, however, is a different story. Baking and I have the best relationship. It doesn’t stress me out. We get along. I love the scientific precision of baking, the way that you have to adhere strictly to a recipe for it to turn out. Counterintuitively, this eases my mind more than the endless possibility that cooking presents. I like how with baking, you throw everything into a bowl, mix mix mix, and then throw it into the oven and forget about it for a little while. Watch a TV show, read a book—no need to watch over your concoction until the timer says so.
Baking for others also brings me joy. I love sharing my goodies with my friends, family, and coworkers. I love their smiles when they try something I’ve made (and it’s usually smiles, knock on wood). Over the pandemic, I played around with my chocolate chip cookie recipe to get just the right balance of white and brown sugar, just the right amount of salt, just the right amount of fridge resting time to bring them to perfection. Baking is a science experiment. Cooking feels more like throwing paint against a wall and hoping a portrait appears.
My grandma has taught me that there’s no shame in being an adult who doesn’t like to cook. I grew up with a mom who spoiled us with her cooking, prepared a new, delicious meal every night, and cooked copious amounts of food for company on many occasions. That will just never be me, and I’ve accepted that. Everyone adults differently.
All that said, I love food. I love a good meal at a nice restaurant, a visit to my parents’ house for a home-cooked dish, a plate of food that a friend prepared with love. Creating this joy for myself is just not something I am ever going to wrap my head around. I used to let that frustrate me, but I don’t anymore.
Everyone’s got the things in life that stress them out and those that bring them joy. Cooking and baking are some of those things for me, respectively. Growing up is all about realizing what you have space for in your life and what you don’t. It’s about setting realistic expectations for yourself and learning to love who you are. I’ve learned I don’t like cooking, but I don’t let that weigh me down. Instead, I take joy in the fact that I’ve learned something about myself and embraced it. It feels good. Almost as good as a perfectly executed chocolate chip cookie.